The little that remains
by lucelafonde
Summary: The Final Problem. Sherlock managed to get himself killed after all. At least he took Moriarty with him. John tries to get over the events that happened on top of St. Barts, but he can't. He misses his best friend. Memories ensue. Bromance  pre-slash?


_A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains. The medics arrived as quickly as they disappeared. The police came and went. People gathered around. Eventually, they left too. The fall of two equally brilliant men, the most amazing minds in the whole of history perhaps, got boring after just a couple of hours. For some, it might have taken days. For me, it will last a lifetime._

#

No, John thought. No, I can't write that.

It had been weeks now. Weeks of loneliness, despair and eventually emptiness. He had tried to distract himself ever since 'the incident', of course. He had tried cleaning the rooms, THEIR rooms, but he realized he just couldn't do it. Never could he just throw out anything that had belonged to HIM, that HE had touched, that HE had placed there, carelessly, just letting it gather dust in the most insensible spot possible. And now John let it do just that. Because that was what Sherlock had planned for it. Destroying his system, his way of living… John couldn't do it. Moving anything in the flat meant accepting it. And God knew he'd never do that. He wouldn't touch ANYTHING as long as there was no one to argue with him about it. And that was that.

He had tried going to work, of course. It was alright. Not great, but surprisingly okay. Getting home on the other hand… Now that was a whole different story. John realized the feeling of emptiness got worse when he left the place and returned any amount of time later. Whether he was just out shopping or visiting his sister over the weekend in order to distract himself… It was no use. Because every time he came back, he expected to see a sulking figure in a dressing gown laying on the couch, perhaps even playing with a violin or pistol. Or, if the mood demanded it, even a syringe. John noticed he missed those times the most.

Because he had hated it so much. Hated how slow and limp the otherwise energetic man became when he did that. Hated how cold and careless he suddenly behaved (John was aware that most people thought that's what he usually did, but it really wasn't. This was so much worse). Hated what it did to his body. But most of all he had hated his response to John's yelling. _I'm BORED, John…_

Yes, John had hated those occasions. But he had also loved them. It was then that he got one of the few chances of glimpsing into Sherlock's mind. Just for a couple of minutes he understood how much that man trusted him. How much he meant to him. Because Sherlock didn't argue with him when he took the syringe and stomped on it. Sherlock didn't try to make up excuses for his behaviour. Sherlock never talked back. He only ever said he was bored, and that's that. Sherlock never fought him when he let out an exasperated sigh and put an arm around his shoulder. Sherlock never tried to get away when John led him into his bedroom. Sherlock didn't try to stand up when he dropped him there, softly, like he could break any second. Sherlock didn't insist on him leaving when John decided it would be better to keep an eye on him, just to make sure he made it through the night. Sherlock never complained when John put a blanket on him and caressed his hair with a sad smile on his lips. Sherlock never mentioned it in the mornings either. They never talked about it. And two weeks later, they did it again. And again. And again.

"Son of a bitch," John murmured as he walked into the kitchen. He deliberately ignored the half-finished experiment on the table and walked straight to the fridge. Sooner or later he had to get rid of those thumbs.

He settled for tea and shuffled into the living room. There. Sherlock would usually sit there. Observing him. Telling him about a conversation he'd apparently had with him half an hour ago, when he wasn't in the room. John smiled. Yeah, he'd totally do that.

But he didn't. Because he wasn't there.

The smile faded. John sat down. He opened his blog again. People told him talking about it would help. He didn't want to talk about it. Talking about it meant it was real. It meant he was acknowledging it. Meant it really happened. Meant that Sherlock…  
>John took a deep breath and began typing again.<p>

#

_Most of you will have learned by now about what happened on the roof of St. Barts on that Sunday three weeks ago._

#

He closed his eyes for a second. Sherlock had always made fun of him and the way he wrote his blog. Even John realized that that sentence was not only vague, but also very uncomfortable to read. He didn't care. The alternative would be writing it out and that was even worse than talking about it.

#

_You may be wondering why I haven't written any kind of statement so far, but the truth is: I never intended to do so at all. The only reason I bother now is a – frankly alarming – press release from Jim Moriarty's brother that has been bugging me ever since I stumbled upon it.  
>Well, I say stumble. What I actually mean is what has been shoved in my face by various strangers on the street who demanded answers from me. They really believed the crap it was saying and that was reason enough for me to write the events of what really happened that day down. While I would appreciate some privacy in Sherlock Holmes' last case, I realize now that this simply won't be possible. Nothing in the world could justify my silence when the memory of this marvellous man, the most brilliant, ingenious of them all, is being this disgracefully defiled.<br>So I will do what my friend always told me to do: I will blend out all the emotions I hold about the events I will shortly describe to you and only tell you the facts. And then… well, if you are still convinced Sherlock Holmes is the bad guy in this story, I will find you, and I will – to put it in Jim Moriarty's words – skin you.  
>So shut the fuck up and pay attention.<em>

#

Yes, John thought. This sounds about right.

He wasn't even kidding. He would. He really would. And why not? Not like there was anything left living for. If he was going to prison… Well, at least he wouldn't be bombarded with memories there. Maybe it would be a good thing.

Smiling, he shook his head. Yeah, right. As if Sherlock would ever approve of that. He could almost hear him.

"_Don't be stupid, John. They wouldn't have you in prison. You're too nice. No one would believe YOU did it anyway. They'd probably think it was me. Pass me that finger."  
><em>  
>He realized he was trying to grab something that wasn't there a second later. Of course, the finger. Even now he automatically accepted Sherlock's insane requests. He smiled involuntarily. The Detective would be proud. He had trained him so well.<p>

He went into the kitchen to get another cup of tea. Sherlock would have made some snide comment by now.

"_John, you're obviously wasting your time with that stupid blog of yours. No one's reading it anyway. No one cares about your emotional attachments. Where do we keep the fire extinguisher?"_

And then his glove would catch fire and John would be the one to put it out. Sherlock would just snort and then continue the experiment like nothing happened. John could almost see it when he closed his eyes. The annoyed look on his friend's face when he realized the whole thing was ruined and had to be redone.

Wasn't that what had happened that morning? Wasn't that how it had all started? John closed his eyes and noisily breathed in. Ah, yes. How did he forget?

* * *

><p>I woke up. That in itself wasn't so unusual. What WAS unusual and quite extraordinary was the fact that I'd woken up all by myself. No loud noises. No annoying Detective texting me or standing at my bedside, telling me to get dressed to run with him through half London. No worried calls from said Detective's brother who informed me about the sudden disappearance of said Detective. No anxious DI standing on my doorstep, begging for help in a case. I really just woke up. Like that. Just like that. That was all there was to it. That was more than just a little suspicious.<p>

I went downstairs in my pyjamas to get myself a cup of tea. Oddly enough, Sherlock was sitting at the table, experimenting on some things I neither could nor tried to identify. He didn't even look up when I walked past him. I didn't expect him to. I'd just filled myself a cup of tea when I realized the Detective had said something.

"Sorry, what?" I asked startled and turned around to face him.

"I said you look tired. Long night?" Sherlock asked casually, still not bothering to look at me.

"Er… Yes, actually. I just updated my blog. You know. About that whole Hound thing."

"I vaguely remember," Sherlock snorted. "I also remember you whining about ruining your shoes in the mud."

"Sherlock… I didn't just RUIN my shoes in the mud," I sighed and closed my eyes, trying to be patient. "I LOST them."

"So what? That's no reason to keep whining about it for days to come."

"I had to run through the woods – from a wild monster – without any shoes, Sherlock!" I cried.

"Hmph," he made and ignored me for a bit. I was used to this kind of conversation. I knew he would continue it eventually. Any second now, or hours later, one could never be sure, but continue it he would.

"Still," he surprised me a minute later. "John, you're obviously wasting your time with that stupid blog of yours. No one's reading it anyway. No one cares about your emotional attachments. Where do we keep the fire extinguisher?"

I turned around from my chair in the living room – in which I had JUST sat down – and saw that the fabric (?) he had been experimenting on had indeed caught fire. This wasn't a first. I knew how to deal with the situation. I calmly, but with the speed of lightning (you never knew what chemicals were involved and what they could do after all) got out of the chair, grabbed the nearest blanket and put it with sufficient force on the flame. It died almost immediately, something I was particularly thankful for after I realized Sherlock's glove had been part of the burning things too.

I didn't say that of course. Like him, I just acted like nothing had happened and resumed my former position in the chair. The Detective snorted and focused on the ashes in front of him, realizing they were useless now. In a fit of anger, he threw everything into the sink and slumped down on the sofa.

"So…" I said after a while, when I figured he was over the worst of it.

"So?" he asked annoyed and turned his back to me.

"Got any cases?" I tried to distract him. A bit obvious, I know. He knew it too, but he didn't call me out on it. He never did.

"Hmph," he made and turned the other way. He was fixating me with those impossible eyes now. "Does it LOOK like I got any cases?"

"Maybe you'll get one today. Something interesting," I offered, ignoring his sarcastic remark. "Maybe… a serial killer?"

"Stop it, John," he grinned slightly. "You always promise me those things and then I never get them. You're raising false hopes in me. That's cruel."

"Maybe I'll get you one for Christmas then," I smirked.

"Now THAT would be a present I'd never guess," he answered honestly and we shared a few minutes in companionable silence.

It was Sherlock who suddenly sprang up from his couch and decided he needed to redo the experiment. I didn't even blink at that. Gosh, I was WAY too used to this stuff than could possibly be good.

I watched him for a while. Watched his long, lanky fingers move the apparatus like they were designed to do nothing else. I could only stay there for so long. It was a bit humbling to watch someone handling all those terribly sensible things with such ease.

Since I had nothing else to do, I went to take a shower. It got really interesting after that.  
>I noticed my phone buzzing on the bedside table, an incoming call. For a second I wondered who that might be. Hardly anyone ever called me. Mycroft would. But why would he now? Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything. So he wasn't pestering him about taking a case. The Detective was fine, so he had no reason to be concerned about him either. So not Mycroft then. I was over the point of finding the list of people who might possibly call me pathetic. I just picked up the phone without further thinking.<p>

"Hello, Johnny-Boy!" said a sing-song voice in my ear. My body froze in an instant. That just wasn't… well, okay. Maybe not IMPOSSIBLE. But it just was that damn unlikely! What were the chances of THAT happening?

"Moriarty," I established.

"Did you miss me?"

"Can't say I have, no," I answered honestly, staring at the door. Should I tell Sherlock? Should I call him?

"Well, that sentiment is mutual," he admitted. He sounded like a puppy. HOW did the most dangerous man in the world manage to sound like I just kicked him?

"What do you want?" Straightforward. I was no Sherlock, but even I knew that playing with the lunatic was not the wisest plan.

"I'm BORED," he yelled so suddenly I hardly had time to bring some distance between the phone and my ear.

"Well, that's… I'm… sorry to hear that," I offered. "Aren't there any… I don't know… WARS you could be manipulating? Some… elections you want to play with?"

"You aren't half as creative as one might expect from Sherlock Holmes' personal… friend… but I like you're way of thinking. Half-baked, but there's some potential there, I'll give you that."

"Thanks… I… guess…" This was starting to get weird. I felt like I was acting as Moriarty's best friend, whom he'd just called after he finished playing his favourite computer game, which now left him with nothing to do for the day.

"ANYWHO," he yelled again. My ears wouldn't forgive me for that call for a loooong time. "I just called to say hello. Especially to our mutual friend, Sherlock."

"What did you do?" I asked alarmed. In my head, I had already created dozens of scenarios involving bombs, guns, poisons and other deadly stuff in a very public place.

"Nothing," he said. "So far…"

"Moriarty, I swear, if you…"

"Shush, Johnny-Boy!" he ordered. I immediately shut up. One never knew. There might be someone's life depending on it. "There's a good boy! Sherlock trained you well! I should complement him on that someday."

I growled in disdain. That man was seriously starting to annoy me. I had to get Sherlock. Now.

"Oh, and while you're at it: Tell him my most heart-felt greetings."

"Wh…"

"You were just about to get Sherlock, weren't you, you naughty little thing?" He giggled. A criminal mastermind. Was giggling. In my ear. "That's okay. I'd like to talk to him anyway. Go fetch him, boy!"

I didn't reply to that. I put the phone down and went into the kitchen, my hair still dripping from the shower.

"Sherlock," I tried to get his attention. He didn't even look up from the things on the desk.

"Not now, I'm busy," he replied, which was more than he usually did.

"Sherlock…" I tried again.

"Not now!"

"He's back," I sighed and handed him the phone. THAT got his attention. He finally looked up and fixated me with those piercing eyes. I offered him the phone again and this time he took it.

"Jim," he said matter-of-factly. "Funny… Yes… Yes… No, I don't. Not usually, anyway… Why? … So what makes you think I'm interested? … No, actually I'm not. Must be just you then… Yes… Hmph."

I didn't hear what Moriarty was saying, but Sherlock obviously didn't approve. He ended the conversation and gave me the phone back.

"So?" I asked carefully.

"So?" he replied, deep in thought.

"What did he want?" I pushed.

"Entertainment, I guess," he shrugged. "I don't know. He didn't say. But I'm pretty sure this won't be the last time we heard from him."

And it wasn't. As always, my friend turned out to be right. If only he didn't.

* * *

><p>Sherlock told me about his encounter with Moriarty in a taxi two days later. He'd realized the consulting criminal was the driver too late and had to watch him take off right in front of his eyes. After that, things changed.<p>

My friend was hardly ever to be found at home, when I DID see him he almost never said a word and he looked worse by the day. I was concerned. No, more than that. I was terrified. I knew Sherlock held very strong feelings towards Moriarty, some of despise and hate as well as admiration. Mostly though, he was angry. I like to believe it was because of me. I took great satisfaction in the thought that Sherlock hated Moriarty so much because he had kidnapped and threatened to kill me. Of course there were other reasons for this rivalry too. The games they played… In retrospect, 'the incident' was the only way it ever could have ended. I bet that son of a bitch knew that. And he just let it happen.

About two weeks later Sherlock finally decided to talk to me again. He came into the living room, spotted me, turned around again and threw me my jacket.

"Come on," he said and headed for the door. I followed. Of course I followed. When didn't I?

"Sherlock," I yelled after him, trying to catch up. "Sherlock, where are we going?"

He didn't even turn around. He just kept on walking until we reached a small pawnshop. There he dragged me into an opposite alley and gestured me to keep quite. Of course I didn't follow that silent order.

"Sherlock," I whispered. "What are we doing here?"

"Shush, John," he said. "Wait and see."

"Wait and… SHERLOCK," I hissed. "It's the middle of the night. It's bloody cold. And you haven't spoken to me in weeks. What's going on?"

"John," he emphasized.

"Don't 'John' me!" I snapped. "I have a right to know what's going on. You've been acting weird ever since that call…"

"Fine," he hissed angrily and pointed at the shop at the end of the street. "See that building? I have reason to believe it's being used for money laundering."

"What?" I asked. "The pawn shop?"

"No," he said slowly. "The building. I did say building, didn't I? Good."

"Okay. So… what? That's not your type of case. What are we doing here?"

"Took me weeks to find it, but now I have. Some undercover-work was necessary, of course. Nothing too excessive. Eventually my original suspicion proved to be right." He smirked.

"Which was…?"

"Oh, John, DO think!" he said irritated at my slowness.

"I don't…" I started, but then something came to mind. "Moriarty? You think it belongs to Moriarty?"

"Oh, I'm sure it does," he laughed. "Today, they expect… well, I'm not sure. Something big. A shipment, I believe. If we can bust the operation, we might be able to get Moriarty. Or at least prove to be a big inconvenience to him."

What happened next is all a bit of a blur. Well, I say 'a bit of'. What I really mean is 'I don't remember a single thing'. Fragments of the following events sometimes pop up and Sherlock told me what had happened later, so I'll try to narrate as understandable as possible.  
>The guys with the shipment turned up like Sherlock predicted, and upon discovering us they fled as fast as they could. We thought that was a bit weird, but we shrugged it off because they were probably the lowest kind of criminal, just following orders, not really into trouble. Sherlock opened one of the boxes they left behind.<p>

He had been wrong. It wasn't a money laundering-thing. It was drugs. TONS of drugs. Probably enough of them to get the whole city high for a night. This was kind of bad. It turned even worse when the police showed up and arrested us for suspected dealing.  
>We did try to explain, of course. They wouldn't have any of it. Granted, it must have looked a bit odd. Two blokes, in the middle of the night, in front of a closed shop with crates filled with drugs. They didn't even know about Sherlock's addiction yet. Now that would be fun to watch. Try to get out of that one.<p>

I stated earlier that I didn't remember a thing about that incident. That had a reason. I got a pretty bad blow to the head from one of the officers when we escaped. And there was of course the encounter with the bus shortly after that.

Basically, Sherlock and I had been handcuffed. Together. We ran in front of a bus. Some bloke pushed us out of the way before that took a nasty ending. The guy turned out to be one of Mycroft's men. Apparently, the government official was not amused about recent events. You know. Mainly about his brother getting arrested.

He did give us some information about where to look next though. So that was helpful.  
>We found ourselves in China town after that. We hunted down some criminals who we suspected worked with Moriarty. They did not, but at least there was a bit less scum walking around London now.<p>

"Take my hand," Sherlock said suddenly, when the streets began to fill with people as the first shafts of sunlight made their way through the clouds.

"What? Why?" I asked perplexed and looked around.

"Because it's easier to explain than handcuffs," he remarked and took my hand before I could say anything.

We walked around like that for a while. We even had dinner. Ironically enough, now that Sherlock and I were openly 'holding hands' on the table, less people suggested we were a couple. Funny how that works. For a moment I thought about doing that every time we went out now, just so I would be spared from explaining our admittedly complicated relationship to the whole world. I remembered too late that we were kind of famous now. People started to recognize us on the street as the famous Detective and his blogger. And they saw us holding hands. Shit.

Lestrade wouldn't let us hear the end of it for a long time, I just knew it. But then again: We shouldn't be consorting with the police in the near future anyway. And we shouldn't be seen in public in case they were still looking for us. I told Sherlock as much. He snorted and said his brother had probably taken care of it by now. I was inclined to believe him. If anyone was likely to have that power, it was Mycroft.

Sherlock knew a guy who could get rid of the handcuffs. After running around with them for almost a day, it was a relief to have my hand to myself again. It felt a bit weird though. I decided not to think about it. Also, I did notice people staring at us again. WHY did we seem to be invisible when we acted like a couple and suspicious when we just walked side by side? I sighed and took Sherlock's hand again. There. People stopped noticing us immediately.  
>My friend looked down on my questioningly, but neither made a snide remark nor disentwined our fingers. Interesting.<p>

"People don't pay attention to us when we behave like a couple," I explained, determined not to look at him. "Just play along."

And play along he did. Now, I've always admired my friend's acting skills, but this was too good for comfort.

He completely filled the role of my boyfriend. He put his arm around my shoulder whenever we came to a halt, whispered into my ear when people were standing by (nothing romantic of course. Just general observations about things around us, but everyone else thought he was telling me how adorable I was) and glared at everyone who dared look at me.

It was as flattering as it was disconcerting to see how easy it was for Sherlock to pretend he had this level of intimacy with me. I knew of course that he would never have done this with anyone else. I'm aware of my own shortcomings, but there's one thing I've always prided myself with and that's my deep understanding of the mystery that is Sherlock Holmes. No one else ever came this close to this brilliant man. No one else ever would. He trusted me as I trusted him. Our mutual affection and adoration for each other was something other people never understood. They always thought there had to be more between us, but there really wasn't. I'm not sure there's such a thing as 'more' in this case. I was his best friend. Maybe his only friend, but he didn't seem to mind. He didn't need anyone else.

And that's why I put up with all his quirks, the heads in the fridge, the ruined relationships, the violin-escapades in the middle of the night, the hurtful things he sometimes (okay, often) said…

Because he loved me. More than he could ever love anyone else. And I was pretty sure I felt the same way about him. My girlfriends felt it too, of course. Like everyone else they thought it had to be something romantic, but they were wrong. I didn't need to be THAT to him in order to be the most important thing in his universe. So what we had was all I needed. Irene was right. We WERE a couple. And a pretty damn cute one at that, if I were to judge by the looks people were giving us.

"We should call Mycroft to find out if the police is still looking for us," Sherlock suddenly said and took out his phone.

"You're gonna run off again, aren't you?" I sighed. He just smirked at that and dialled.

"Mycroft… Yes, I know… Hm… Right… Maybe… Of course I do… Yes… I'm sending him home now… You do that… Okay," he hung up and looked at me. "You heard what I said. Go home. Mycroft took care of everything."

"What about you?" I asked concerned. He was going to get himself arrested again, I just knew it.

"I didn't get a blow to the head," he explained and pointed on the slightly swollen spot on my forehead.

"I'm fine. It hardly even hurts," I said quickly and ignored the pulsating sensation behind my eyes.

"John Watson… The worst doctor to ever walk this earth," he chuckled and patted me lightly on the back. "Go now. Do something about that nasty bruise. Get some sleep."

"Will you come back tonight?" I asked, knowing I won't get an answer.

As predicted, he just smirked and took off, leaving me alone with my worries.

* * *

><p>Sherlock, as always, was right of course. The blow had been harder than I first thought, as the memory loss proved. I decided to rest for a bit, waiting for my friend to return. In the end it was Mycroft who knocked on my door, telling me about the things his brother had been up to. Including his current whereabouts.<p>

"Prison. Sherlock's in prison," I repeated his words dumbfounded.

"You sound surprised, Doctor," Mycroft noticed. "That can't REALLY come as a shock."

"Well, no, but… I…" I snorted. "Of course he landed himself in prison. Why wouldn't he? For a smartass like him he's incredibly good at coming up with bad plans."

"I wouldn't call his plan bad, per se…" Mycroft indulged. "He DID manage to get James Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen."

"And got himself into prison, yeah, I got that, Mycroft," I said rolling my eyes. "HOW did he… No. You know what? Don't tell me. I don't even want to know. Just tell me how to get him out of there."

"That will be easy," he said, playing with his umbrella. "I only have to place the right amount of money for his release."

"Then why don't you?" I asked confused.

"Sherlock is not the only one with a brother in a position of… some influence," Mycroft explained slowly.

"No way," I said. "You mean… Moriarty… is not… the ONLY Moriarty?"

"I'm afraid not. His brother is a decorated war hero with friends in ALL the right places." He sounded sick.

"Mycroft," I laughed. "You're not jealous, are you?"

"Why would I be jealous?" he said in a manner that told me he was just that.

"I don't know." I pretended to think about it for a second. "Maybe because there's more than one powerful older brother out there? Let me guess: you and he have a little thing going on, haven't you?"

"What… little thing?"

"Damned if I know. Some kind of… power play-thingummy. Who's the better guardian? Who can out-smart the other with their next move? Who has more control over their little brother?" I guessed.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I would never indulge in something this tedious and unnecessary," he waved it off. "It's pretty clear I'm way above him."

At that we locked eyes for a second and started chuckling simultaneously. I knew he was right, of course. No one who'd ever seen Mycroft in protective-brother mode could argue with that. There was literally NOTHING he wouldn't do for Sherlock. Moriarty the older didn't stand a chance.

"That still doesn't explain why you don't get Sherlock out of there," I said eventually.

"As I said: I'm not the only one who will be trying that move. Colonel Moriarty and I are currently caught in a game of surveillance. We watch each other's very move. If I release Sherlock, he releases James and vice versa," he sighed.

"You can't let him stay in there forever," I declared.

"Oh, I could. Believe me, I could. After what they did… That would be no trouble at all," he said darkly.

"Ssssstill don't wanna hear it," I stated.

"I know," he sighed. "If I let Sherlock go, I let Moriarty go. You know my brother. He will be most cross."

"As if that ever stopped you."

"Indeed," he smiled wickedly. "But if I let them rot in a cell forever… Well, let's just say Moriarty isn't dumb. He has ways of continuing his criminal reign even there. Less prominent, of course, but still enough to make an impact."

"So let them go."

Mycroft looked at me for the first time since he walked in here. I mean really LOOKED. Not just the occasional once-over. His eyes suddenly seemed dark and cold. There was something hidden away there I couldn't quite put my finger on. I started to shiver involuntarily and stared at him in horror.

"I did," he said and the way he said it made quite clear what he meant by that.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, Mycroft had been sent by his brother to keep my occupied. He didn't want me to find him. He didn't want me to be there. He didn't want to endanger me. In retrospect, I should have punched Mycroft in the face when I had the chance to, but at that moment I was too distracted to think of that. I just grabbed my coat and headed out the door before he could say anything else. I called Lestrade. If something had happened, the police would know. He answered immediately, telling me he had just been meaning to inform me. All I heard was 'St. Barts' so that's where I went.<p>

There are no words to describe my feelings as I walked down the street, past the gaping masses that had gathered around, past the police blockade, past the ambulances, past the officers who tried to stop me. I think I hit one of them, but I'm not sure. I don't remember.  
>All I do remember is that face. That man, lying on that barrow. People tend to describe corpses as peaceful, but this was nothing like it. He was twisted in the most unimaginable angles, his face was squished, he was covered in blood and his beloved suit was ruined.<br>But I walked past Moriarty too. As I did, I spit in his face, that I remember. He didn't mind, I'm sure.

And then I saw him.

I remember stopping dead in my tracks.  
>I remember running towards him.<br>I remember staring at him in horror.  
>I remember falling on my knees.<br>I remember grabbing his outstretched hand and clinging onto it for dear life.  
>I remember screaming and crying for a little eternity.<br>I remember what the ground felt like when I tried to force my nails into it.  
>I remember the stinging sensation of the tears leaving my eyes.<br>I remember cursing the man in front of me in all possible variants available in the English language.  
>I remember Mycroft stepping up behind me and laying his hands on my shoulders.<br>I remember hearing him say pointless things.  
>I remember him assuring me Sherlock had known what he'd been doing.<br>I remember him telling me I'd be fine.  
>I remember all those things. But most of all, I remember Sherlock.<br>I remember his face. I remember his arm. I remember the blood.

* * *

><p>Mycroft took me home eventually, when I didn't have the energy to fight anymore. When emptiness started to flood in and consume me. He put me into bed. He even turned off the lights. He promised he'd call me tomorrow to check on me.<p>

I slept. I woke up. Not for a second did I forget what had happened. I walked down into the living room, acutely aware of the silence, of something missing. I opened my laptop. And that's when I saw it.

There was an e-mail waiting to be read. I knew whom it was from even before I read it.  
>"Bastard," I murmured and opened it.<p>

#

_John,_

_I suspect you know by now about what happened. I'm writing this e-mail through the courtesy of Jim Moriarty, who awaits my convenience to face him with my full attention. We are about to settle everything that has ever been between us. He told me about his doings and especially his means of proceeding in them. His methods just confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. It will be my pleasure to be the one to free society from a man like him, though I suspect this is a victory which has to come at a very high cost. Something, which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear John, to you. You must have figured out by now that I sent Mycroft to keep you away from me, and I'm sure you are aware of the reason for my decision. I couldn't put you in any more danger than I already did. It was foolish of me to drag you into this case in the first place.  
>Tell Lestrade all the papers he needs to arrest the whole money-laundering gang (I told you there was one!) are on his desk.<br>As for my personal belongings… You know I never was a man of many possessions, but whatever I have is yours. You decide what to do with it once I'm gone. The way I see it, my recent success in business was at least partly due to your help and blogging anyway. There should be enough money to ensure you can stay in Baker Street for as long as you wish. I hope you'll remember the good times there rather than the bad. Although, let's be honest: the bad MAY have taken up a lot of our lives together. And I wouldn't change that for the world._

_Hoping you can one day forgive me,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

#

I stared at the screen for hours, just sitting there, reading his last message over and over again. At some point between, I texted Lestrade about those papers. He reacted… well, Sherlock must have known how he'd react.

#

_Apparently, those criminals had been at work for years, and not only in England. They were searched for in at least 12 states, and had disappeared from the CIA's radar a few months ago. They were known under the name 'Reichenbach', according to Lestrade because their headquarters were situated there. It took Sherlock less than two weeks to do what none of the officials could do in years, and he didn't even have to leave England in order to destroy the whole ring that had spread around half the world.  
>And now people are trying to make him look like the bad guy.<br>I can't let it stand like that.  
>I can't let the last memory the public will ever have of that man, my friend, be a wrong one, one, which goes against everything he ever stood for. So I wrote it down in the end after all.<br>Let me assure you: Sherlock Holmes had many flaws. Believe me, no one knows this as good as I do. I lived with him for two years. You try to put up with that lunatic for a DAY and then dare come complaining to me. But that's just the thing. Sherlock Holmes had many flaws. Being a bad guy was never one of them. He was always just, always honest, and always – ALWAYS – stood up for his friends and the things he believed in. If it was me, if I had fallen off that roof that day, and people would be accusing me of working for a criminal… Sherlock would be after each and every one of them, protecting me from the world like he always did. And that's what I'm doing now. If any of you should ever dare so much as THINK Sherlock may have deserved his fate, I will find you and make __sure my friend's treatment would seem like a spa to you.  
>He died, knowing that that was the only way to stop the most dangerous criminal the world has ever seen. You better appreciate that. If it wasn't for him, you may have gotten blown up by now.<br>__You're welcome._


End file.
